The Butler
by Trapezoidal23
Summary: The Manor of Rodimus Prime didn't pay nearly enough for what they required of him, especially when his past came rushing back. (post war)
1. the beginning

chapter I

. . .

Cybertron. The Silver Age was beginning at last. Humans had been at first welcomed, but after a few unfortunate underfoot indedents, it had been decided that humans probably shouldn't be on Cybertron for a while. Which wasn't to say that the humans hadn't had quite a large effect on Cybertron's current state of operations-they'd helped shape the new government's organization. On the flipside, they'd also shaped their social dynamics, which, arguably, could be both good and bad.

In the case of the upper class, it was a great thing. Sensational genius! What better way to reward the hardworking and deserving soldiers and officers of war than to give them the best of what Cybertron had to offer—especially those who sacrificed to help the Autobot cause?

However, the case of the lower, more neutral class, specifically our main character, Metrox cursed every day he had to go to work as a servant in one of the elite's household. As a member of the working middle class, he was stuck in the official position of manor manager of the esteemed Governor Councilmech Rodimus Prime and his sparkmate.

Most days, he could get away with making sure all the small everyday chores were being done by various members of the staff, with minimal interaction with his employers. He'd once gone almost a cycle without seeing the master and mistress once.

It was the best cycle of his working life.

None of this was running through his processor as he stood and listened absentmindedly in the master's study. He was only wondering how much more of his time the master would take.

"I told them I have a daughter," Master Rodimus mumbled, nearly out of his mind with high grade. "That idiotic Springer and his glitch of a son, they forced me, they did."

Metrox wasn't going to pretend he knew what he was supposed to do about it. He was "only a butler," after all (in the words of the master of the house the last time he'd asked his butler's opinion on something). As a member of the working class, he didn't matter.

"They want to see this….this lie at Mirage's annual dinner party. Springer is just waiting for me to show up with Moonracer without one, the slagger."

Metrox struggled to keep a glare from forming. He'd been taught it was impolite to glare.

Especially at the master of the house. Even if he felt that Master Rodimus needed a stern reality check.

"I know! I'll adopt one!" Even from where Metrox stood (an arm's length away on the other side of the desk), he could see the small glint of insanity in the mech's blue optics. "I can't wait to see the look on Springer's faceplate when me and the youngling-"

The youngling and I, Metrox refrained from correcting. When the master was drunk, Metrox found him to be most...irritable.

"- show up at Raj's party!" Rodimus let out a very un-noble round of giggles. He downed another third of the high grade cube.

He fell silent for a moment, then leaned forward, signaling to Metrox to listen.

Irritable mech. This time, Metrox did let a frown surface, but only for a moment.

"You. I need a femmling," he said forcefully. "First frame. Aesthetically pleasing. I don't care what color as long as she's here tomorrow. Find her or you're fired." The flame-colored mech spun in his chair and continued drinking the high grade.

Primus, the mech was a maniac. However, Metrox knew he had no time to sit and contemplate the ridiculousness of Rodimus's request.

Reluctantly, he turned on his heel and went back down the hall to the main computer, to plot a map of the few orphanages located in Iacon.

In all of Metrox's collective butler wisdom (comparable to the Wisdom of the Primes), he already knew exactly where the first one was to be found.

The Iacon Home for Orphaned Younglings had recently started up after Reconstruction had come to its unofficial end. Founded by a bonded couple, it wasn't very large, given the fact that younglings were not yet common post-war. However, it was one of the largest, at twenty-seven current inhabitants. Donations weren't lacking—younglings were one of the few causes all Cybertronians would come together for.

Outside the stained, bulletproof glass window, violet-colored clouds crowded in the sky, readying for a heavy downpour of acid rain.

Metrox pulled up the coordinates of its location as he put on the thick fabric cloak as cover in preparation for the oncoming storm.

. . .

Metrox found himself in front of a squat, dripping, four story building. It was made entirely of silver-colored bricks, with four windows going across each floor. Come to think of it, it half-reminded him of a prison or asylum on earth.

Trying not to think of the connection and similarities, he steeled his nerves and strode up to the large, black, metal door. He raised a hand, but the door opened before he could knock.

A young, orange mechling, about eight cycles old, answered. "Wait, wait, wait. I don't understand. What's someone like you doing here?" He questioned the butler like it was insulting to have him visit.

It hadn't been the welcome Metrox had expected. "Is this not the Iacon Home for Orphaned Younglings?" He tried to keep a straight face and not frown at the orange one.

The youngling still looked confused. "Yeah, but you're a lower class mech. Your type doesn't come around here."

Metrox looked down at himself. He didn't think he looked that much like the lower servant class. "How did you know that?"

"You looked scared. Why are you here?"

"I am here on account of my master, who would like to adopt a youngling," Metrox said primly, forcing the surprise off his faceplate. What a brat.

"Oh. Worker. You'll have to talk to Corkscrew, then. She's in charge of the kids." The youngling shrugged. "I feel like I should warn you. She's not nice."

 _Oh, pleasant day._ Metrox coerced himself into taking the two steps inside. The youngling opened the door wider and stepped aside to let him in.

. . .

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. There hadn't been any femmes under the age of ten, let alone in their first frame.

Metrox took a breath, stepping outside into air where a femme was not yelling at him. As his terrible day would have it, this "Corkscrew" not only had had a few screws loose and a hard time hearing herself, she assumed that everyone else did too.

His audios were still ringing.

As Metrox shook his head, trying to clear his audios, a drop of light acid rain landed on the back of his head. He cursed quietly, pulled up his hood, and readied himself for the next downpour and orphanage, hoping fervently that, for the sake of his job, the young femme existed.

. . .

When it acid-rained, Iacon was pleasantly deserted in the upperclass neighborhoods. Metrox found he didn't mind the quiet as much today. He'd had enough of the upper class to last him the rest of his life.

The air was thick with moisture but cool and refreshing and sunlight reflected off the newly finished buildings—

Before he could process what was happening, he was falling, a cord around his wrists and one pede. He let out a strangled grunt of pain as his faceplate hit the concrete.

Someone (who also had their pede against his back) pushed a gun up against the back of his helm. "Credits," it growled.

Horrible beggars, Metrox thought. Most didn't have the intelligence to acquire a firearm, but this one seemed...special. "Right cloak pocket. But if you bothered to actually look at me, you might see that I'm actually—"

"Quiet," the bot cut off, as it rummaged through said pocket.

"—quite lacking credits at the moment," Metrox finished as if he'd never been interrupted. "However if you're in need of monetary support, the Cybertronian Citizen Recovery Center in Central Iacon should be more than willing to help anyone in their time of need."

"Bullslag," it muttered, without stopping its search for the credits card.

Cloaks without pockets seemed to confuse would-be muggers very often and it amused Metrox to no end.

A few seconds was all he needed to twist out of the thin cord and turn over, hooking it around his attacker's neck and pulling it tight. "I said I'm _broke_." He punctuated the sentence by twisting it tighter and tried to send a communication to the Iacon Police but found his comm wasn't working. All he got in reply was static.

"So is Cybertron," the mugger hissed. It pulled out a dagger from seemingly nowhere and left Metrox on the ground, holding nothing but a broken cord and a bad day.

. . .

The other two youngling houses held the same results. No first frames available for adoption.

The rain hadn't let up at all. If anything, it had only increased.

He'd just decided that his working days were over and that he should head back to the servants' quarters at Governor Rodimus's manor while he still could. The thought of a nice cube of high grade and the latest installment of Cosmechpolitan was all he wanted.

Metrox was so lost in sweet thought about what possible political science would be in the most recent issue that he didn't notice a soft crying until he was almost standing in front of its source.

Shock rolled through him as he bent down and saw that it was a very, very, _very_ small first frame femmeling, struggling to keep in sobs from inside an empty cargo shipment container. She looked even smaller curled up in on herself in a container that barely went to Metrox's knee joint.

Having not dealt with younglings since he himself had been one, he was at a loss. Part of him wanted to turn for home and drink. The other part of him, what the humans called a "conscience," wouldn't let him leave until he knew the small one was safe. _Damn parental protocols._

"Hello, little one," he tried, faltering. "What ever is the matter?"

His words seemed to have the opposite effect of what he intended. "No no! Bad! Go way!" Fluid leaked even more profusely from her large yellow optics and she somehow made herself smaller inside the shipping container.

It occurred to him that his size might be intimidating to such a small personage. He sat down on the sidewalk in the rain. He was reminded of a common sparkhood query. "Why?"

The youngling, seeming a little surprised by it, replied, "Bad rain hurt."

 _Ohh._ Younglings seemed to be more sensitive to acid rain. No wonder she'd been crying. Metrox pulled off the cloak and held it out. "Would you like cover, little one?"

"Box," she replied, as if to say no— she already had cover, thank you. The fluid from her optics seemed to dry a little, leading Metrox to think he didn't scare her as much as he thought he did.

"Better than the box. Cloaks are better," he said, holding out his hand to help her out.

She shook her head. "No leave box. Mama come back."

Oh, slag. Oh, fragging scrap his entire life to Pit and back.

He had the misfortune to discover the ONE youngling who didn't happen to be from the Well of Allsparks and therefore not able to be adopted.

He gave up hope of that drink, swallowed his pride that came from reading the Cosmechpolitan every day for the last ten cycles without fail and laid his cloak half over the box and over his helm, holding it up with a hand. "Is that better?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied curtly, the tears almost completely drying up.

There was something so familiar in the way she curled up against the wall of the container and sighed that was strangely familiar.

"What's your name, small one?" Metrox tried.

"No stranger," she told him, as if reminding him of stranger danger.

Why did younglings have to be so difficult? "My name is Metrox. I manage manors. I live two miles from here and I don't like rain. See?" He tried smiling. "No stranger."

"Stranger," she said, nodding and pulling away.

"How about this?" Metrox pulled out half a rust stick he'd accidentally left in his cloak from the day before. His "sweet tooth," as the humans said, had finally come in handy.

At first, he was afraid she'd refuse it, on the grounds that it was only half and he was still a stranger. She looked suspicious at first, raising an optic ridge in an insanely adorable human facial expression, but said, "Zen," and held out her tiny hand.

Finally he was getting somewhere. He slowly placed it in her hand.

"Hello, little Zen. What's your creator's name?"

Instead of eating it, she held it to her chest in a hug.

"Mama," she said, with all the certainty only a youngling could have.

Metrox was about to say that that wasn't a designation when he stopped and realized that she was so young that she'd probably never learned her creator's actual name.

"Where is your mama, Zen?" he asked instead.

"She run," she replied. "She come back. She do that."

"How long have you been here?" From how dirty she was, it might have been anywhere from a few hours to a few days because of the rain.

Zen held up three fingers.

"Three minutes?" Metrox tried.

She shook her head.

"Three hours?"

Again, she shook her head.

Primus forbid, but he had to ask. "Three cycles?"

But again, she shook her head, letting Metrox relax a little about her creator's bad parenting.

"Since... the clock struck three?" As a token of good will, the humans had helped commission a giant clock tower in the middle of town. In honor of the human contribution to the war effort, it chimed the human lengths of time in an extremely human fashion— via an extremely old copper bell hanging at the top. The surrounding population had taken to referencing it as a time piece.

It had been almost six hours since the clock struck three.

Zen nodded her head. Metrox was incredulous. "Aren't you hungry? Haven't you eaten? Primus, little one, your mama has been missing a very long time. Do you want to come with me and get something to eat?"

"No, no stranger," she said.

Metrox wanted to scream.

. . .

It was almost the eleventh chime when Zen fell into recharge within the shipping container. Realizing this was an opportunity, Metrox gingerly picked the box up, cradling it in his arms and covering it up with his cloak like a giant blue mother hen.

It occurred to him this might be kidnapping, but he consoled himself with the thought that no youngling this small should be left alone on the street for that long and that since he didn't plan on doing anything illegal with her, it was fine. _Absolutely fine. I just need to borrow her_ , he told himself. It would be fine.

. . .

 **a cracky G1 AU. I am ugh. this is a writers block help, so updates are gonna be sporadic. also, i'm using "cycle" to mean "day" bc im too lazy to come up with an explanation for why cybertronians are on human time.**

 **-tz**


	2. philosophical waxing at a tea party

chapter II

. . .

It was nearly midnight by the time he arrived home and all was silent in the manor.

Metrox was in the middle of sneaking into his own quarters when Zen woke up unexpectedly. It started as a gasp, then a choked sob, and then one very. Very. Long cry.

He carefully sat down the crate and awkwardly lifted her out, inwardly panicking and outwardly trying to do anything he could to get her to quiet down.

Thankfully, as soon as she set her head down on his shoulder, she fell back into recharge and all was silent in the big manor again. Metrox made sure to pause for a full minute before moving a mechanical muscle.

Nothing.

He let out a vent he didn't know he was holding and continued his steady pace to his quarters, rubbing circles on Zen's back and doing his best to not wake her again.

When he finally got into his rooms, he encountered another obstacle. It was definitely past his time to recharge.

There was only one recharge berth. He was sure Zen wouldn't appreciate sharing.

He certainly wouldn't.

Hmm.

. . .

"Zenith. Zenith?! Zenith! I'm sorry, sweetspark, I'm so sorry, I didn't think it would take that long but I lost the spy and I'm back now and you must be sta—"

The crate was gone when she turned out of the alleyway onto the sidewalk.

The human clock struck six.

This femme didn't usually curse because of little audios. It wasn't polite. But now those little audios were now missing in a city of half a million pairs of other audios. She expressed the impossibility of the situation in one vulgar human word.

"Shit."

. . .

He eyed the box from where he stood, arms full with the youngling. She was so small, surely she'd fit there? For the night at least?

He slowly shifted her weight totally onto one arm and pulled off the cloak with the other. It was still damp from the acid rain— she couldn't recharge on that. He hung it on the hook beside his door. Carefully, he pulled another old cloak from his closet and dropped it into the crate, trying to make it as bedlike as possible.

Zen would have to do without head support for a night, but it wouldn't hurt her. Right? he asked himself. Metrox had no idea the first thing to do with a youngling and since he'd accidentally deleted the manor's Information Hub password from his memory banks a few planetary turns ago, he'd have to figure out the youngling situation by himself, if only for tonight.

Tomorrow, he'd ask Rodimus to hire a caretaker or something. He certainly couldn't do this full time.

That was out of the question.

After he was sure Zen was recharging soundly in the makeshift crib, he curled up in a ball on his own berth, not unlike the way Zenith was curled up in hers.

It wasn't the most normal way for an adult mech to recharge but old habits die hard. He'd slept this way since he could consciously remember. He was so tired he couldn't bring himself to care.

Mere seconds passed and he drifted into a deep, sweet recharge.

. . .

Metrox awoke to strange silence, loosely curled up on the floor.

Oh dear. He hadn't moved around during recharge this much since he was stressed out as a youngling. He didn't even remember hitting the floor, which was a testament to how deeply he was in recharge.

He checked the time and, panicking, shot up. He darted to the main hall to make sure it was being cleaned as it usually was on the tenth day of the Cybertronian week. He let out a vent of relief to see its floor had already been polished to a gleam and the curtains and windows cleaned.

First thing done, then.

Metrox could absolutely not believe he'd overslept. He headed back to his quarters to ready himself for the day.

When the door slid open, Metrox saw the crate and the reality of the previous night came crashing back into his memory. The lost sparkling. He needed to report it to the authorities.

Metrox pulled off the cape to reveal an empty container and the panic set back in.

"Slag."

. . .

"She can't have gone far," he said aloud to himself, rounding a corner. "She's what? Four cycles old? Five? I can't believe I've been lost by a five cycle old."

He stopped suddenly. He needed to notify Rodimus that he'd found a young femmeling.

He was half an inch away from running down the hall to the office where Rodimus was at this time of day. He rapped on the door, anxiety rising in his spark chamber. Every moment that passes Zen could be in danger. A falling curtain, an exposed plug in, falling down the stairs... Metrox shook his head. It's fine. You'll find her. Surely someone inside the manor has seen her. A youngling is an innocent being, one everyone will do anything to protect.

He hoped so anyway.

The door slid open to an empty desk. His optics widened for a split second. Then Metrox lowered his optics. The master of the house was sitting on the floor of the room with various office supplies— a work datapad, some different colored styli, a file organizer. Holding an orange stylus was Zen, who was concentrating intently on the datapad, moving it slowly in an enormous effort to convey whatever thought was inside her youngling processor, begging to get out.

Rodimus seemed much calmer with Zen than Metrox had ever seen him in all his years working at the manor. "Interesting choice of color scheme. Is that your creator, sparklet?"

Zen did not move her optics from what she was concentrating on. "No. Friend of mama."

Rodimus let out a barking laugh. "Ha! You use so many human terms, bitlet. Who taught you those?"

This caused Zen to look up. "Mama," she said flatly. The look on her face suggested she didn't appreciate being laughed at.

Master Rodimus disregarded it and let out another laugh and noticed Metrox standing frozen in the doorway. "Meteor. You've exceeded my expectations. She's just perfect for Raj's creation day. I assume all the papers are in order?"

Metrox almost didn't notice the wrong name but swallowed his pride for the sake of his job.

"Well, you see, I found her. In a box on the sidewalk," he said nervously. "I—I was going to go down to the police station today and report her. It's just she was so tired and by the time we would have gotten there, the main office was be closed and I would have had to leave h—"

"Nonsense! Finders keepers, Meteor. Don't worry about it. It's a sign. I don't want a paper trail. I'll have a sparkling caretaker by this afternoon. In the meantime, find her some better armor and get her checked out. The sparklet looks like she came out of the Pi—" He stopped himself and gave Zen a sideways look. "—somewhere."

Metrox blanked. Surely just taking a youngling off the street without notifying anyone was some sort of crime? She wasn't just some object he'd found; she was a whole, living youngling—

He must have stood there a second too long because Rodimus then added, "Well? Take her!"

Metrox hesitantly held out a hand to Zen and said, "Would you like sustenance, little one?"

"Yes, please, sustemance," Zen said politely, drawing forgotten.

. . .

Metrox, over a cube with Zen, mused over his position. His inner monologue with himself wasn't fitting the dialogue Zen was attempting to have with him.

He wasn't sure where a youngling fit into his life, if at all.

Another thing. You see, in addition to the social dynamics, human children had also passed on the idea of make believe, particularly that of the ruling governmental monarchy. Playing as members of the court seemed endlessly fascinating, even if it wasn't exactly historically accurate.

"Sir Met! You almost spill your tea!" Zenith scolded in her princess voice, pulling Metrox from his train of thought.

"Oh, dear. My deepest apologies, princess." He pulled his arm joint back from where it was about to knock over a small energon cube halfway full of low grade sparkling energon.

It was already forgotten. "Princess? Mama is princess, too. She so nice. Purple nice."

Purple. The color held so much emotional baggage for Metrox.

It was the color of the sky on their way out of enemy lines on a stolen ship with his closest friend as a youngling. It was the color of the Decepticon that had nearly killed him so many years ago. It was the color his friend's lifeblood had leaked when he was dealt a mortal blow. The color of Earth's sky at sunset.

Most significantly though, it was the color of Mismatch's armor after a fresh coat of paint, because it was her favorite. It was the color her femme creator said looked best on her, one of the rare moments of honesty and friendliness between them and Mismatch chose it because no matter what she claimed, her femme creator's opinion mattered and Mismatch craved her approval.

It was the color of dark energon and the fluid that leaked from her optics as she died in the terrestrial mines on earth.

Metrox shook his head. He'd start leaking at this rate.

"Well, Zen, are you ready for some shopping? Governor Rodimus has given me permission to charge to the housing credit card to get you some new armor." He didn't expect her to understand, but she nodded sagely as if she did. She dropped half a rust stick from the day before into the half-filled cube she was holding, letting it mix into the low grade.

"Very well," said Zen. She then picked up a lid and attempted to cram it back on, upside down, onto the energon cube.

If the tea party was but a preview of their time together, this was going to be difficult. "May I try, princess?" Metrox motioned to the cube.

Zen reluctantly gave up and let him fix it. She then tucked it under her arm, rust stick turning the electric blue energon a dark flaky red. It looked...not at all appetizing. "Primus, little one. Are you still planning on consuming that?"

Zen seemed to be repeating something when she told him matter-of-factly, "We do not waste. Take it or leave it, dearest."

Odd little thing. Metrox dismissed it as youngling imitation. Someone must have said that to her many times.

With a respectful "princess, if you would," Metrox took her hand and walked with her to the door.

A day of shopping it was, then.

. . .

Mismatch was in the middle of scanning the footage of the cameras she'd left Zenith in front of the night before, looking for something she'd missed. She saw the mech almost walking past Zenith's crate, Primus damned hood up to keep the rain and Mismatch's optics off his face.

He stopped. He took a step back. He looked down. He presumably saw Zenith inside the crate. At one point he covered the crate with part of his cloak. And then he sat. And sat. And sat. And sat.

Mismatch set it to timelapse.

And then at exactly 22:53:06 HT, the mech stood, bringing the crate up with him. He turned and started walking, hood still up.

Frag him. Frag him to pit.

She cybernetically followed him as far as she could, hacking into every video device connected to the Hub. Eventually, she came to a string of locations (almost the entire surrounding neighborhood, actually) where the cameras were all set on a closed circuit.

Mismatch was unable to follow them any further. She was, however, able to assume that he was headed towards a residence of some sort and that from his path so far, could only be headed to one of two high class neighborhoods. There were only so many housing units he could have come from walking, which meant the half a million was now whittled down to a much more manageable few hundred, which the femme didn't mind at all. It was much better than some of the other places she'd had to start with in the past.

Time to start a list.

. . .

After a short period of shopping, Zen was placated with three fushia sets of armor, all perfectly tailored for a youngling of her size and strength, courtesy of the manor card. Metrox may or may not have thrown in yesterday's copy of Cosmechpolitan and a bunch of rust sticks. He tried to share, but they ended up in the melting pot, which had gathered a piece of every little snack she accumulated during day.

It had been a joor (about six human hours) shopping and half another since they arrived back to the manor.

In that time, the youngling caretaker Rodimus had promised had come and gone. As had the second.

Metrox had his suspicions that the third one was about to do the same.

He was right. Not even a full human minute later the most recently qualified mech found him.

"I've had absolutely enough. I refuse to work for this establishment any longer," the newly hired nanny Rodimus's assistant had found to look after Zenith said explosively. He had his things packed away and was ready to walk out the door. "Consider this my notification of job termination."

"But sir, why?" Metrox was desperate to not lose yet another one. Caretaking was not yet a common profession and word of family's difficulties spread quickly among the few that did exist. "Was it Zen? I'm sure, whatever she did can be discussed— she's really a sweet youngling—"

"Of course not! Little Zen could be a metaphorical human angel! I adore her, even with that strange cube of sustenance she carries around." The former nanny's demeanor changed suddenly. "It's that MONSTER of a mistress I refuse to work for. Four different times today, she's come storming into my room like I'm some sort of servant class maid, complaining about some armor change or decoration or sustenance she needs. I'm not a servant and I refuse to be treated with such rudeness. Good day, Metrox."

And with a slam of the sliding door, the mech was gone.

Metrox sank into the nearest chair and allowed himself to sulk for a whole minute and a half before reluctantly rising to tell the master of the house the news.

. . .

Rodimus's response was about as explosive as Metrox thought it would be. "That's it! I'm tired of your complaining about not having a babysitter for the sparklet and the constant quitting! YOU take care of it, Metrox."

He was confused. "You want me— to oversee the hiring process?" He didn't handle any hiring job higher than his own station— a nanny was equal, if not higher, than him. This was ludicrous.

"No, metalhead. Take care of the sparkling. Ready her for the thing tonight, you're her escort. Now get out. I have more important matters to attend to." Rodimus turned in his swivel chair and the conversation was finished.

Metrox realized there was going to be no further discussion and took his exit.

"What the actual frag?" he cursed aloud, once he was pretty sure he was out of audio range of anyone. "I'm the worst choice to take this job! I'm not equipped— I don't know how to take care of a sparkling. I'm barely prepared to take care of myself! Primus! What is he thinking?" His pedes, either without his permission or under direction of his unconscious, had taken him to a door on the other side of the manor. "What have I gotten myself into?" he asked no one in particular.

The door slid open to Zen's room and anxiousness settled into Metrox's fuel tanks.

Zen came running. "Met! Tea party." She motioned to the set of small cubes on the youngling-sized table with equally small chairs. "You sit here." She pulled out a comically small chair for Metrox, which he had an extremely hard time balancing on. "You be princess."

Metrox would have laughed if he thought this innocent little spark wasn't going to be subjected to extreme scrutiny and many judgmental looks tonight at the...party. Soiree. Thing. He didn't care what it was. His priority was now to get Zen through the night without letting her know that passive aggressive slagheads existed. "How about this," he replied,"If you pick out a new set of armor, we can play princess tea party until we leave Mirage's creation day celebration." His sincere tone must not have been enough for Zen, because she gave him a skeptical look, like a seasoned pawnshop owner looking to better a deal.

"Real rusties," she said. It wasn't a question. Metrox didn't care.

"Real rust sticks," he replied, nodding once.

"Dill," said she.

"Deal," he replied.

. . .

 **AN: ah i love writers block.**

 **-tz**


	3. an unnecessary amount of bribery

Chapter III

. . .

After much careful deliberation and many, many armor changes, Zen finally settled on a combination of the three pink sets of armor. Metrox was incredibly frustrated with the infinite number of changes Zen made; he was at the hopeless stage in his impromptu parenthood. He just wanted her to settle. When her little voice finally said, "this one," deep in his spark he felt what the humans meant by the phrase "could have wept with joy."

"No take backs?" he asked.

"No takes back," she assured, wearing her final mismatched choice and holding the cube that had become almost unbearably gross to look at. Chunks of rust sticks and oil swirled around in Energon that had lost its glow and luster, giving it a heinous brown sludge color. He'd given up on trying to get her to give it up in favor of a cleaner cube of something, anything, else. He pulled out two full rust sticks and handed them to her, ceasing to care what she did with them. (She immediately dropped them both, whole, into her concoction.)

"Alright then," he replied and for the first time all day, happened to look at himself in the mirror. "Primus."

Previous versions of Zen's little concoction were scattered across his arms, a testament to how hard he'd fought for its rightful disposal. He still could feel the remnants of acid rain from a day ago in his leg joints. He made a disgusted face and pointed at himself to Zen. "I look like a train wreck, don't I?"

Zen, who'd been focused on swirling the contents of the grossly abused cube, looked at him and nodded sagely. It was unusually adult of her and it managed to break through his frustration. He laughed and froze; it sounded alien to his audios to hear himself laugh and, for the first time in a long time, felt a sort of balm on his brokenness. Metrox couldn't help but credit it to Zenith. Since the moment he'd first looked at her as his charge, she'd put a certain warmness in his spark, a nameless flutter of emotion he and his commitment issues were too afraid to name. May it be the end of him, but he could not stay frustrated with her.

. . .

Optimus, the great military leader that was said to have singlehandedly changed the tide of the war, the generous spark that had funded the first Iacon Orphanage, and biggest and most influential philanthropist to Cybertron's Reconstruction, rarely received visitors.

After the war ended, instead of building some sort of mansion or manor for the purpose of aristocracy or fame, he built a library, an archive for the stories of humans and Cybertronians alike. With the rise of a human-like democracy, equality was present more than ever on Cybertron and with it, a lack of need for a single leader, especially one as outdated and old as him.n the beginning, current representatives of certain cities would come and ask his opinion of whatever issue (the underfoot incident especially, but also of firearms among civilians, the convict death penalty, and part transplantation) was plaguing the reborn planet at the time. Years passed. Gradually, representatives stopped coming, which was fortunate, as he didn't fully agree with the direction politics had taken recent years. Optimus needed something useful to occupy his growing amount of free time. A mech of the past should concern himself with the past, he reasoned. The archivist in him moved him to start collecting stories.

Every datapad held a different point of view, a different story of the war. Autobots, Decepticons, neutrals and everything in-between from around the universe came to record their stories in the annals of the great Optimus Prime. Which isn't to say they came to visit him, the leader himself, but mostly to see for themselves the archives he'd built and what he'd made of himself post-war. Sometimes, they sat and read the stories of others. But it was rare that they asked anything of his presence. He didn't mind, or that's what he told himself. At least, before the breaking down began.

It began with putting a datapad on a shelf. The tips of his servo were pushing it into its place on a shelf above his helm. The next thing he knew, it fell over and he'd forgotten his name and what he was doing there. Not just what he was doing; he'd forgotten he'd fought a war that he was now documenting in hopes it wouldn't be forgotten.

It passed within a few seconds- he told himself as he picked the datapad up that it was no reason to worry. He'd still visit Ratchet, but mostly to assuage his own conscience, telling himself he was fine. Until it happened again. And a third time. The fourth time, a patron of the library found him reading a datapad, sitting on the floor and not knowing that he was Prime.

It was only then he went to Ratchet, who gave him answers to questions he didn't want to ask. As far as the seasoned medic could tell, Optimus's body was breaking down. Centuries of battles and injuries and destruction were not without consequences. He'd had quite a few processor injuries in his time and thought he was lucky enough to escape with minimal damage, but unfortunately, it seemed everything was catching up to him. Soldier's Portion, they called it. The natural breaking down of the mecha later in life after so many battle injuries. Optimus wasn't angry or frustrated. His soldiers had endured this for centuries under his direction if they hadn't outright been offlined. It was only just he'd endure the same as they had.

He took the diagnosis quietly, announced his retirement as a public figure, and returned to his library, feeling a little more worn and a little less himself. He told a few old friends, but for the most part, his condition stayed secret. Cybertron as a whole assumed the former Autobot leader was tired and, collectively, decided to let him rest in his library. His soldier's pension, in addition to many donations from well meaning civilians and nobility to the archive, kept him quite comfortable.

He went about his librarian duties just as he did before the diagnosis.

. . .

 _Surely there's a better way to do this_ , Mismatch thought of her chosen medium. One could gather information inconspicuously. One could move about invisibly in crowds, asking whatever they wanted. One could see without being seen.

 _One would also think that a race coming near-extinct out of a millennia-long war would be more conscientious of the likelihood of spies_. But apparently not, as in every household she'd visited, she'd found security loopholes, physical and technological backdoors. When those failed, there were always things like this. It was a matter of patience, which she excelled at. However, in searching for Zenith, time was a luxury and she couldn't dwell on how bad their security was. She needed to focus on finding her little one. With Zenith in mind, she steeled her nerves, remembered her chosen identity, and approached the next upperclass being to walk through the doors. She reminded herself of her chosen persona and once again began her intel-gathering.

"Good evening, madame! I was wondering if I could trouble you for a photo and a quote for the Autocratic Journal?"

. . .

Rodimus lapped up the attention that was given Zen as only a politician would. It disgusted Metrox as only the aristocracy could. "Yes, dear little Zen, only a few planetary cycles old. She's adopted, you know, from that orphanage in, oh, I forget the name. I was paying it a visit to see what good my donations had done and my optics caught sight of her, so small and fragile. I just couldn't let her stay there." Rodimus kept going.

Metrox stopped listening, out of fear he'd vomit, and pulled Zen away, toward the hors d'oeuvres table. Zen looked up at him doubtfully, confused by what Rodimus's outlandish claims. "My designation Zenith," she said plainly. "He is lying," said her expression.

"Really?" Metrox replied in surprise, forgetting his disgust momentarily. "Zenith?" All this time, he'd thought she was named after the human name for inner peace. Or something like that. He wasn't as well-versed in human language as he used to be. "And, yes, he _is_ lying, but he's also a politician trying to gain favor with the upper class. He tells lies."

"Politichian," she repeated slowly. "Mama said they lie," she added quietly, looking above her helm and eyeing some creatively shaped pink Energon on the table.

Metrox had given up trying to simplify his explanations several hours ago when he'd nearly given up on making the new sparkling look presentable. Zen, no, _Zenith_ could understand almost anything he said with ease, even if she couldn't quite pronounce it back to him. Metrox did not hear the last part, also focusing on the hors d'oeuvres.

"If you don't tell anyone he's lying, I'll smuggle out an entire plate of rust cubes," he offered. "Deal?"

Zenith smiled with such jubilee as only a sparkling could. She could make deals. "Dill."

. . .

It was a cycle like any other when a notification popped up on Optimus's home viewscreen. He answered.

"Mirage? Good to hear from you, old friend...No, I'm afraid I don't get out much...your creation day, you say?" A pause. "Ha! I don't think there's much benefit in an old timer like me being at the social event of the season, Mirage." Another, longer pause. "If you say so." A shorter pause. "A short while then...a break would be nice…alright. Yes, I'll be there...Till all are one."

The former Autobot leader leaned back in his chair and observed the stacks of new stories on his desk, then to an old faded-pink hologram of his recently deceased Elita-1. "Primus. Surely if I have half the wisdom everyone says I have, I can make it through one small party, Elita."

. . .

Metrox quietly cursed as Zenith yet again disappeared from view. She was quite the little socialite and seemed to adapt well to the ballroom scene, especially after a few energizing rust cubes.

The human-themed ball was in full swing, with a dining room the size of several human factories brimming with mecha dressed to impress. Lighting hung in the style of human chandeliers; the human tradition of appetizers was honored in the form of small cubes passed around by servants in imitation black tuxedoes. Excessively detailed dresses were copied in hologram, armor, and cloth form. Many were clad in black and white, leaving the large room looking quite like a chaotic chessboard. Others wore tasteful hues from dark space to watercolor blue, the color of the evening. Mirage was nothing if not tasteful in his egotistic tendencies.

The one thing almost every being present had in common was that they were tall and wide enough to hide a small, fast-moving sparkling. He regretted not making her promise to stay within visual range. She seemed very easily motivated by snacks. She appeared, darting between two well-dressed mechs having a conversation. Only one of them noticed as she spilled a portion of her odd concoction on his well-polished pede. She promptly disappeared again.

Metrox vented resignedly and did his best to follow the trail of sludge, leaving a trail of apologies in his wake. Again.

. . .

Optimus regretted his decision to come as soon as he saw an expensively dressed couple leave the dining room. Small gathering, his left foot. This would be his most public appearance since...he could remember. Unsurprising, Optimus thought. However, since he was already here, he considered it rude to leave without at least thanking Mirage for the invitation.

And a rebuke for lying to a former commander, his sore pride said. But Optimus would never be so outrightly annoyed he'd say anything and Mirage knew it. _A sparked manipulator_ , the Autobot leader thought wryly, as he quietly made his way to the center of the room, where a giant aluminum replica of Earth spun slowly, floating on well-hidden magnets in the flooring, with its natural flora and fauna largely exaggerated. It was...quite a unique centerpiece, Optimus thought.

He chose not to notice most of the stares he attracted, standing half of a regal head above most in the room, his plain red colored chassis standing out from the sea of ballroom black, white, and blue. Eventually, the ambient conversations recovered from his entrance after he nodded in greeting at a few acquaintances.

He gladly accepted some sort of Energon drink from a member of the waitstaff, who seemed to be shaking (in fear? Respect? Disbelief that he'd actually shown up?) at the sight of him. "Thank you, young mech," he said. Optimus was half afraid the young mech would shut down from the stress of offering him a beverage. But no, thankfully the waiter only twitched a nod and went on his way to serve others. _Thank Primus._ Optimus let out a long vent of air in relief. It wouldn't be the first time some youngling who'd only heard the grossly exaggerated stories about him had glitched dead away from seeing him in person.

Once the young mech left him, Optimus also remembered another reason for wanting solitude. Many wanted to talk to him, face to face, but were too intimidated.

So under the shadow of a large, ornately carved arch, he stood alone. He didn't mind. As Orion Pax, he'd been a quiet librarian. As a Prime, he was a strategist. Both involved careful observation and silence. He was adept at both. He took a sip of the surprisingly sweet Energon and took in the atmosphere.

But how he managed to miss a small streak of pink armor holding an Energon cube of just a bit too high a grade running straight into a sensitive wire in the side of his leg joint was an absolute mystery to him, even as he flinched and stumbled into the side of the pillar, nearly falling over. Both cubes of Energon fell and shattered loudly on the floor.

Though old, Optimus was still faster than most. He swiftly caught and lifted the pink armored sparkling and handed her to a flustered, blue-colored mech that appeared to have been following close behind her.

"Primus on a stick, you're Optimus Prime, my apologies, oh no, I'm so-"

Despite the pain receptors in his leg still going off, Optimus good-naturedly waved it off and offered, "Sparklings of any age should perhaps not be confined so at an event of this caliber. It's no one's fault, young mech."

Fortunately, the shattering of a cube seemed to go unnoticed due to Mirage letting off a display of holographic fireworks all over the model earth. It briefly caught both young and old mechs' attention. the crowd let out a chorus of "ooh"s and "aah"s. Once the sound had died down, they were both stuck at an impasse, the young mech not wanting to leave without again apologizing and the old without assuring him it was quite alright. An automated cleaner came and went, cleaning up the remnants of the Energon cubes within seconds.

An awkward silence descended. To the young mech, at least. Optimus was as comfortable with silence as he was with conversation.

"I'm still very sorry," the young mech tried again. "This is my first time attending a sparkling at a ballroom event with...this one. She's...made very little easy on me."

Optimus's optics brightened ever so slightly and underneath his faceplate, his optics crinkled as he smiled. "It's good you're here to look after her, then. Mirage wouldn't appreciate a sparkling wreaking havoc at his creation day party."

"I would imagine." Primus, he felt so awkward. "It's-it's an honor to meet the leader of the Autobots."

"Bosh. I haven't held that title since before Rodimus was promoted. I'm just an archivist now, haven't you heard?" Optimus said it so nonchalantly it took half a second more for it to sink in.

Metrox's optics that lit up in surprise. "What? An archivist of what?"

"Stories," the old mech replied. After a moment of contemplation, he asked, "What's your name, young mech?"

"Metrox, sir. This is Zenith, my charge."

"Just Optimus is fine, young one." There was a pause. "Metrox. I've heard that name before." The toddler wasn't familiar at all, but he felt the designation Metrox was somewhere deep in his memory banks.

"I was a neutral youngling Prowl and his team evacuated after the destruction of Praxus," Metrox reminded. The conversation seemed to gain a half ton as they remembered one of the earliest tragedies of the Great War. "I remember Prowl and some others finding us in a supply closet."

"Ah yes. The Praxian group rescue. Arcee, Bumblebee, Metrox, Mismatch, Smokescreen, Sideswipe, and Sunstreaker. Prowl came across you all after Megatron's bombing attempt on the the youngling care centers." Optimus remembered that in morbid detail. "I apologize for not personally speaking to all of you as younglings and explaining, but I thought it best for all of you to have you separated and hidden as soon as possible."

"No, no, I understood," Metrox assured him. "I understand. There was a war going on. A judgement call is a judgement call." He bore the legend of a mech no ill will; Optimus was, after all, the one that had ordered an immediate medivac for Mismatch when her spark started glitching, despite the many other emergencies happening at the time. "Besides, I think we only had the opportunity to grow up thanks to your troops' quick arrival and your decision. Don't- don't dwell on it, Optimus."

The old leader seemed to relax ever so slightly, as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulder plates. Metrox adjusted as Zenith squirmed at his side, unhappy with the stillness of the conversation. Optimus himself couldn't tell if was because a weight had actually been lifted or because there was someone alive who didn't blame him for a decision made under the high pressures during the Great War. Because in the grand scheme of things, Metrox had very little to complain about.

Others, however, were another story.

. . .

"Hello! I'm from the Autocratic Journal. Do you have a moment for a photo and a quote?" Mismatch smiled encouragingly and held up a (human-themed) Cybertronian sized notepad.

"Absolutely! Get my good side," a bright pink femme with an obvious need for attention squealed in delight. "I'm Arcee II of Iacon Bend. Oh, isn't this amazing? I just love what Mirage's done with the room, it's beautiful. Have you tried the yellow rust squares? I hear they're exactly like what humans eat."

The femme prattled on and Mismatch's audios grated against the high voice. However, she didn't let her annoyance show as she dutifully pretended to take down what Arcee II thought of the party's decor, ambiance, and whatever else there was to comment on. The bubbly, pink femme ended up talking for almost half an hour before Mismatch's audios could take no more. "That's plenty, thank you so much," she excused herself, cutting the talkative femme off. Mismatch didn't look back as she attempted to escape to some wall for a brief respite from the uselessly chatty upperclass.

. . .

Zenith had been suspiciously quiet during the whole conversation, instead choosing to shoot glances at a femme journalist passing by somewhere in the vicinity behind the Autobot leader and nanny. Metrox didn't think anything of it at the time. "Also. I've always wanted to say thank you. Mismatch and I were incredibly grateful that you airlifted us out together. Separated, I'm not sure I would have survived without her."

"No need, young mech. No one should have to shoulder a war alone. It especially wouldn't have benefitted anyone to have _younglings_ alone."

"That's… I'll keep that in mind." Optimus could hear the cogs turning inside the young mech's mind.

"I know it hasn't been a full hour, but I'm old. I've worn myself out with all this publicity," Optimus admitted bluntly, nodding at the occasional bot that turned to lay optics on him. It was far too often for his liking. "I'll attempt once more to make my well wishes to Mirage. It was quite spark-easing to speak with you, Metrox. Please, come by the archive. There's still so much space for more stories, especially for those who have survived so much." He smiled behind the mouth guard, optics crinkling once again, and nodded toward the youngling. "I'm sure Zenith would appreciate the opportunity to run around."

Metro nodded, quite speechless. "Bye, Prime," said Zenith, obviously in a better state of mind. "Thank you very much."

Optimus gave a small wave of his hand and his large form disappeared into the crowd, as effortlessly as if he was nonexistent. The butler felt half a ton of tension go in the form of an outward vent.

"Holy slag, Zenith."

"Language," she said.

"I just talked to Optimus Prime," he told his charge.

"Prime," she agreed, nodding.

. . .

Mismatch stormed out of the main ballroom, out a side hallway, and through a servant door in anger. Forty-six. Forty-fragging-six rich-aft, attention-seeking aristocrats she'd had to talk to without getting anywhere. Technopsycology wasn't a science she was familiar with, but this rate, she'd find Zenith faster if she learned from scratch how to bio-hack every last aristocrat's processor for information.

She collapsed in hopelessness on the steps leading outside. For the first time since Zenith had been taken, coolant leaked from her optics and she let all the despair and loneliness overwhelm her. Several servers came and went, out of propriety pretending not to notice her.

. . .

Zenith did not appreciate her creator's concentration on finding her. Mama needed to do her job. Zenith had found a familiar spark, someone Mama said was good (even if it was in recharge). So she chose to trust him. There wasn't anything wrong with that, was there? Especially when it let Mama do her important job and keep others safe? She'd probably be very proud of her. Zenith felt she was doing a great job of watching Metrox.

Adults were strange, as were their motivations. Like this gathering of so many. Everything was loud and uninteresting. Maybe that's why it was so hard to think. Such thoughts of adults were not Zenith's forte. Her forte was words. She knew what words meant. She didn't know what these adults meant. Adults were in the terrible habit of not saying what they meant.

Sleepiness overwhelmed her small form and she found herself slowly falling into recharge on the trusted mech's shoulder armor. "Zen. Little one. Are you recharging?"

She didn't answer out of obstinacy. Of course she was. Or she was trying to. "Alright, youngling, I'll ask a server for a plate and we'll leave." She nodded without looking up and relaxed into the blue one's walking gait. Sleepy, sleepy, sleepy Zen. Everything became fuzzy and unfocused.

"Sir, I believe it's time for Zenith and me to leave," she heard Metrox say faintly. A hand rose protectively to her back armor, which she fully appreciated. She did not like the obnoxiously red-orange one and would like to avoid him at all costs.

"Yes, yes, by all means, take her home," she heard the red one wave her away with a tone that dripped with human honey. "Poor sparkling, so tired out by all this socializing."

Zenith did not appreciate the patronizing tone with which he waved her away. She made a mental note to tell Mama about that one. Briefly, she wondered where her creator had gone. With the calming thought of her femme creator's face in the guise of the journalist, she drifted peacefully into recharge and heard nothing more.

. . .

A flurry of servants unloaded new crates of creatively prepared energon, which had been on standby just in case the occasion called for it, which it did. It was disappearing at an alarming rate, almost as if it were being taken by the plate-full. They hurried as clouds formed overhead. A weather report was sent out; it would indeed rain soon.

After a few minutes, Mismatch composed herself. She rose and walked back to a temporary housing unit. She would find her. She needed a plan. She needed to _think_ **.**

. . .

It was late before Metrox rolled into the manor's driveway. Soreness seemed to coat his joints and he made a mental note to check on that tomorrow. Surely he wasn't that old, was he? Transforming was a quiet agony; he had to do so without waking Zenith, which forced him to take an extra minute on the driveway at least.

A nifty addition, the driveway. The ease it added to a housing unit was inspired by the humans. It was made of solid pieces of bedrock, imported from Earth, and went all the way from the main road to the front door, branching off every so often to other areas of the manor. It was much easier on the joints than the hard Cybertronian pavement used everywhere else. He'd never been more grateful for the gently sloping driveway leading up to the manor side door.

Metrox was so exhausted by the evening, he forgot to take off his cloak. While in subspace when he was in vehicle mode, he'd set it to automatically pop back on once he transformed. Usually, he turned it off before going in to recharge, but with Zenith in his arms after changing forms, he happened to forget. By all of which, I mean to explain that he wore his cloak all the way back up to the door, which really annoyed a certain someone watching from some distance away.

The spy could not see the small figure underneath the cloak. She cursed quietly and stole away to the next house. Metrox, still utterly and completely worn down from the day, set the recharging Zenith down in her sparkling bed and collapsed on his berth without another coherent thought.

A few miles away, in a borrowed housing unit, almost a joor later, Mismatch tried to do the same.

. . .

 _The explosion had left everyone in its radius on the ground, cold and dead. Those outside the direct blast were infected, like Mismatch. "Metrox, leave. Now. I'll—I'll be fine," she heard herself say. Her sight was going dim, optics clouding over dark, deadly purple and she knew she was beyond saving. Her spark churned inside her chest, pained, attempting to fight the invasion of dark energon._

She didn't recognize this mech's face. She'd had this dream countless times before. Every time, this oddly familiar mech would plead and beg, don't let him leave without her, don't let him leave alone. But she had no idea who he was.

 _"No, I can't leave you. You're— you're— I can't—" He looked so sparkbroken; she wished she could help him. The pain spread through her chest, crushing her. She grasped at the only name she remembered and said what she'd said a thousand times before._

 _"Metrox. You'll be okay. Leave."_

. . .

Today was a mess. He had to get several pieces of armor up to the mistress's impeccable standards, fill out paperwork for Zenith's facade adoption, talk to an officer about the legalities of finding a sparkling, take care of some estate paperwork for the mistress and master, make sure the cracked windowpane in the main hallway was repaired before noon...

He had been sitting at his desk for a while, working his aft off to catch up on all the little things involved in keeping the manor in pristine condition he'd missed in caring for a sparkling.

Zenith did not care for his day job. She'd been amusing herself all morning working out and drawing differential equations on a youngling's datapad, but she'd grown bored and wanted something more substantial to keep her occupied.

Zenith enjoyed sightseeing and observing. As a tiny being, she was adept at noticing things without others noticing her observance. Not without _being_ noticed, of course, Mama made very clear that that was impossible because sparklings were cute and appealed to nearly everyone's inner parental protocols. Then they'd gone over what those parental programs were and how they worked and how they were probably put into place by Primus. A very neat lesson, because Zenith liked attention and knowing how to get it (the term she didn't realize she was looking for was "manipulation"). She would get the mech's attention. He would play princesses with her.

"Met," she said imperiously. "Metrox." She reached up over the desk and pulled off an important-looking datapad. Metrox raised an optic ridge at her, leaned down and picked it up, putting it back where she couldn't reach it. There was no other reaction. He continued working. This was a problem.

She thought for a moment and went around to stand beside the chair.

"Metronos," she said, louder and more demandingly.

If he were human, the feeling that ran down his spine would have been called "chills." Since he was a technological being, the information highway in his spinal strut was always moving near the speed of light up, down, and along all nerves and sensory systems. It was only supposed to stop when he was dead. Shock stopped all processes for a split second at these words.

Inwardly, Zenith congratulated herself on her ability to say it without stuttering. These words had taken some practice since she only said them when Mama recharged (quietly, of course).

Metrox turned and looked down at her. " _What_?"

"Play with me," she replied, satisfied that she'd acquired his full attention.

Metrox's mental faculties froze and he quite forgot that he was dealing with a sparkling. "No, where did you learn that?" Zenith did not appreciate his tone.

"Mama says it," she said, expression souring. Why did it matter?

He knelt down to her level, his full attention focused on her. This _was_ what Zenith wanted, but it wasn't part of her plan for him to focus on the words instead of playing. His expression matched the one Mama had on her faceplate when she said, "Stay here. Stay quiet," and left to beat up bad guys that tried to sneak up on them. Except the blue one did not say that. He asked, "Why does she say that, Zenith?"

Hmm, Zenith thought to herself. Quite a predicament. Did Met know about the bad mechs? Did Mama want anyone to know about her recharge malfunctions? Zenith decided that if she were left in charge of herself, she had the authority to divulge whatever information she thought was necessary.

"Mama says it during recharge."

Metrox was silent for a few moments, lost. Zenith took the opportunity to gently set the cube of (even more grotesque) sludge update on the desk as a peace offering.

"Play now?" she asked expectantly. Metrox felt the tension and frustration drain into the floor. He did need a break. He was imagining things. There was any number of places Zenith could have picked that name up.

That's what he told himself, anyway.

. . .

Optimus very much appreciated silence. Not just because the pair of beings that had been whispering and following him all morning had finally left a few minutes ago, without saying a word to him, but because it was nice.

The glitching was getting progressively worse, but Optimus found himself taking it in stride. During the morning hour, he considered hiring an assistant. Stories were still coming in and he had more mail than he was able to read and catalogue by himself. He was reluctant to entrust his archives to another. Perhaps it was a consideration for later. He reached up, making room for another data pad—

That was when the outside wall exploded.

. . .

The Prime's residence wasn't too terribly far from the well-spaced, upperclass neighborhood that Metrox resided in. That is to say, the sound of the explosion rattled the light fixture that "Princess" Zen and "Royal Avisor" Metrox were having lunchtime "tea" underneath.

The soldier in Metrox was no stranger to the wartime rattle. He immediately darted out from underneath it, unceremoniously grabbing Zen and opening all communication channels among the manor from near a window, which let him see the front yard of the manor. On-comm chatter was already wondering about the nearby explosion.

One line stuck out to him, "Isn't the Prime's library really close to that?"


End file.
